


by the yaruga

by starchilding



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Elemental Magic, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, God Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Multi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Polyamory, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starchilding/pseuds/starchilding
Summary: When Jaskier was seven years old, his mother had told him that the Yaruga barely, if ever at all, freezes over. When he had asked why, his mother had smiled and said “great rivers never freeze Julian, only if you anger them.”On his eighth birthday, Jaskier watches as his mother sinks into the Yaruga river. On his forty-third, his body sinks into the river bed, covered in nothing but blood and dirt. His unseeing eyes look into the murky waters of the Yaruga. He does not feel the arms cradling him, nor does he feel the whispers of a voice he has not heard in decades.And for the first time in years, frost begins to creep on the surface of Yaruga.--OR Jaskier's inabilty to age normally like humans do has an explanation, and Geralt and Yennefer need to read up on River Gods before they have another war on top of the budding Nilfgaard invasion in their hands.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 74
Kudos: 808





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kingdoms Come and Kingdoms Go, Rivers Run and Rivers Flow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956247) by [DancingLassie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingLassie/pseuds/DancingLassie). 



> No other explanation for this other than self indulgence and the fact that I am unable to finish all my other fics because of writer's block. Regular disclaimers apply. English is not my first language and constructive criticism is valid. Story deviates from canon a lot so any comment about what is canon and what is not is frankly going to sound stupid. I will update every two days.

On Julian’s eighth birthday, his father was killed in front of him and his mother by a group of mercenaries.

It had been quick, from what he could remember. Everything happened so fast. He remembers his father holding his hands, telling him to be quiet. The wolves that he knew lived behind their house howling into the night. His mother, singing him a lullaby, her shaky hands carding through his soft hair. He remembers the glint of her mother’s necklace.

It was the last thing he recalled with absolute clarity from that night.

He faintly recalls the bang of the door and the thud of footsteps as they approach his bedroom door. He recalls his mother yelling. _“Simon! Simon don’t!”_ She had said. But his father did not listen. He remembers his young eyes watching as his father bravely fought off the group of men before falling with a sword through his back.

He remembers his mother screaming. He no longer remembers if a scream left his lips as well.

There was a huge veil of confusion shrouding the events that transpired after his father died. The next thing he knew, his mother was carrying him through the woods. The wolves, two white wolves, running beside them. He remembers the cool winter air whipping his hair around his face as he watches their tiny house grow even more tinier the further that his mother ran. He remembers his mother whispering to him, but he no longer remembers what she had said.

He remembers his mother walking them through the Yaruga. The largest river in the Northern Kingdoms, he remembers. He doesn’t recall getting wet, but then again, he doesn’t really recall much after his father fell.

He remembers his mother placing him inside a hollow log, her hair glistening in the moonlight—her eyes were wet with tears, and the necklace on her neck glows faintly. He whispers something to him, and after his mother’s lips leaves his ear he remembers starting to feel sleepy.

He remembers his mother and the wolves walking back towards the river, her dress looking like it was part of the current. The wolves sink to the bottom first.

He remembers her blowing him one last kiss; his arm had reached weakly towards her, aching for his mother to stay with him.

When he wakes up, snow has covered the entire land, and for the first time in his young life he was alone.

\--

“Oh Fishmonger, Oh Fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger.” Jaskier grins as he wades through the tables set up in the tavern, cheers of drunken barmen urging him on. He waits for the hands to drop and start beating into the table before he continues singing, jumping up and down and making the bar owner raise an eyebrow at him as he strolls over to her barkeepers. The throng of women giggle at him, blowing him kisses as he passes by.

He finishes the song, manages to bow as flamboyantly as he can before finally packing up his lute. He thanks his audience, chuckling lightly at those calling for more.

“You’ll get more tomorrow, with the bard that will come after me.” He says. “A bard’s throat can never be too stressed. It is how I make a living after all.”

He ignores the groaning from the crowd as he makes his way to the bar. The owner, Shayla, if he recalls correctly, shifts from her place in the post and gestures to a maid to fetch Jaskier’s food. He offers them both a grateful smile, his hand tracing the wood patterns of the bar top.

“Ale. On the house.” Shayla says to him, eyebrow still raised. “Awful early for you to be packing up already, bard.”

Jaskier grins toothily at Shayla, hand motioning to pick up his ale. He takes a sip, savoring the flavor of the ale in his mouth. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst either. Certainly better than the last tavern’s watered down piss-tasting alcohol.

“It’s my birthday tomorrow.” He tells her. The maid comes back from the kitchen, carrying a steaming bowl of stew on a tray. She places the food in front of him with a smile. Jaskier thanks her before picking up a spoon to dig into the stew.

“You celebrating it here then?” Shayla asks as she wipes the bar top. “Wouldn’t expect a famous bard like you to be celebrating your birthday in a piss poor tavern of all places.”

Jaskier laughs. “No, no. I’m heading back to Oxenfurt, actually.”

Shayla raises her eyebrow. “Oxenfurt? And what business does a bard have in Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier chews through his stew, contemplating. For the two years that he’s been without Geralt he’s managed to convince himself that heading to Oxenfurt would be the next best course—a new chapter in his life. After all, he has no reason to travel anymore. Geralt has left him.

“Might give up being a bard, actually.” He says after he swallows his food. He takes a sip from his ale, hoping to wash away the sudden bitterness in is mouth. It doesn’t work. “Might just teach the next generation of bards and scholars.”

“You?” Shayla asks incredulously. “A teacher?”

Jaskier looks at her affrontedly, hand hovering over his chest in mock offense. “Why? Do I not look like a professor to you? I’ll have you know I graduated highest honors in Oxenfurt an—”

“No it’s—you look so _young_.” Shayla tells him. She waves her hand over his face. “Wouldn’t expect you really to settle down so quickly. How old are you?” She asks.

Jaskier frowns a little. “Forty-three tomorrow, why?”

Both of Shayla’s eyebrows raise at his response. “Forty-three? Bard, don’t be joking around me.”

“I’m not lying!” He says with a laugh. “I am forty-two tonight, forty-three tomorrow. Why, is there something wrong with my face?”

Shayla continues to wipe the bar top, disbelief still marring her face. “Bard you do not look a day over twenty-five. Heck, you are older than Peter over there,” she gestures to a man sitting in the corner of the tavern, nursing an ale in front of him. His skin sags in different places, his face weary and sunken. “He’s only thirty-four. He looks worse than you do!”

“Ah, see, I also spent a lot of years in courts so I have probably had a better life than our dear Peter over there.”

Shayla hums, patting Jaskier in the arm before attending to the bar’s other customers. Alone, Jaskier gets lost in the thought of his own age. He tries counting back the years in his head, to when he first met Geralt and to now. He met Geralt when he was nineteen, just a year after he graduated from Oxenfurt. He then spent the next twenty-two years travelling on and off with Geralt, singing songs of the White Wolf and slowly changing how the Continent perceived his kind.

And then, the dragon hunt happened, and that was the end of all of it.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he feels a presence settle beside him. He looks sideways, cradling his ale in his hand. It was a man, dressed in armor. A sword poking out of his back. Jaskier gulps, feeling uneasy all of a sudden. He moves to stand up, attempting to move away from the man when all of a sudden he feels a firm grip on his elbow.

“You Jaskier?” The man asks with a grunt. Jaskier pulls his elbow away from the man’s grip, the ale slushing and spilling into the bar top.

“What’s it to you?” He asks contemptuously. The man turns to face him fully, and from where he’s standing Jaskier can see the scar marring the entire left side of the man’s face. A gasp attempts to leave Jaskier’s mouth, but he holds it in. The man leans forward.

“Are you Jaskier then, the bard?” He asks again.

“And if I am, what is it to you?” Jaskier replies. He scoots further away from the man. He doesn’t make it too far when he feels another presence behind him. He turns around and is faced with metal plating. He looks up and sees another man, dressed exactly like the first man who started talking to him. He gulps, turning back around to look at the first man in the eye.

“Yes, I am Jaskier. What is it that you need from me?” By now, the tavern has descended into hushed silence. Jaskier hears the patrons whispering, but he pays them no mind. His focus remains on the man in front of him. His hand twitches, itching to reach into the dagger he keeps on his hip.

He doesn’t think that the conversation would result in a fight, but years of travelling with Geralt had taught him better.

“What do you know about the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia?” The man asks.

Of course, of course it’s Geralt they’re looking for, Jaskier thinks with anger. Somehow, years after they’ve separated, Jaskier still can’t shake Geralt off.

“He is no longer my concern. I haven’t travelled with him in a while.” He tells them. His eye catches Shayla’s who is looking at him with concern. He nods minutely, urging her to attend to her customers. He turns his gaze back to the man. “Haven’t you heard about that? I travel alone now.”

“But you did travel with him, correct?” The man asks.

“Yes, I did. The key word here is ‘did’. I haven’t seen Geralt nor have I heard from him in years.” Jaskier clarifies.

The man moves closer toward him, dropping his head to whisper in front of Jaskier’s face. “We need you to come with us.” The man says. He grabs Jaskier’s arm once again, before motioning to the man standing behind jaskier. In an instance, he feels two hands grab his shoulders.

Jaskier straightens up in indignation, a bolt of fear and anger shooting through his spine. He violently shrugs off the man holding his shoulders before unsheathing his dagger. He points the dagger towards the man who spoke to him.

“I will do no such fucking thing.” He says with a snarl. “I don’t know what business you have with Geralt, but I will not be dragged into it.”

The man smiles, a frightening thing distorting his face. “Oh but you have dragged yourself into it bard, the moment you started travelling with him. Singing praises of the fucking White Wolf.”

Jaskier hisses in anger, moving to strike the man. Before he could do that, a dagger makes its way between Jaskier and the man. Jaskier startles backwards as the dagger then points to the man harassing him. His gaze makes its way to the hand holding the dagger and then finally, the face.

It was Shayla, whose impenetrable gaze is now trained to the man who carries a sword behind his back.

“Get the fuck out of my tavern, or else you’ll see just how good I am at this fucking thing.” Shayla whispers. The tavern is deadly silent now, and Jaskier gulps before training his own dagger to the man.

A beat passes, and then the man leans off the bar. He dusts his arms. “We’ll be back.”

“No you fucking won’t.” Shayla tells the man. “Now get the fuck out.”

The man spares one last glance at jaskier, and Jaskier knows that it won’t be the last time he’ll be seeing them. The man motions to his companion, and together they leave the tavern. Jaskier exhales, all the anger leaving his body only to be replaed by fear. Shayla sheathes her dagger and shoves it underneath the counter. She reaches over to Jaskier, running her hands through his hair.

“Are you okay?” She asks him. He nods, but he can’t deny that his hands are still shaking. He belatedly notices that he’s still holding the dagger in his hand. It clangs against the wood when he drops it. He doesn’t have it in him to sheath it yet.

“Gods. Fuck.” He says as he buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck.”

“I think you’re going into shock dear.” Shayla tells him. “Water, quickly.” She tells one of the maids. Jaskier feels Shayla pushing a glass towards him, and he lifts his face from his hands and grabs the glass gratefully, downing the water in one go.

“What did they want from you?” Shayla asks him.

“They wanted to know about Geralt.”

“The Witcher?” Shayla asks.

Jaskier sighs. “Yes, I—I did travel with him for a while.”

Shayla hums. “And how long is a while, bard?” She asks him.

“About twenty or so years.”

“Fucking Melitele’s tits.” Shayla yells with disbelief. “You travelled with a Witcher for twenty years, of course they’re gonna ask you what you know about him.”

“I haven’t seen him in a while though.” Jaskier explains. He stares at his hands, willing them to remain steady as he recalls his story to Shayla. He begins with how they met until when they last saw each other during the dragon hunt. He opts to leave out a lot of details, out of courtesy to his previous companions but particularly, for Borch and his child. But the thought was there, Geralt had wanted him gone, so he left.

“Your Witcher’s a rotten bastard then.” Shayla tells him. Jaskier smiles at her sadly, finally returning his dagger beside his hip. He stands, grabbing the case of his lute.

“Not rotten.” He says. “Just, lonely, I suppose.”

He thanks Shayla for everything, and Shayla promises to him that the men from before will no longer bother him as long as he is inside her tavern. He nods before finally climbing the stairs to head to his room.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Jaskier whispers once he has locked the door to his room. He flops to his bed, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. He had hoped to get a good night’s sleep tonight, at least enough to power him through his journey tomorrow. Now, it seems as though he wont be sleeping a wink.

He unsheathes his dagger before sitting cross legged on the bed. He keeps his gaze trained firmly towards the door, hoping and praying that no one would barge in. He keeps an ear out to the faint sounds of the bar below him, looking out for the slightest disturbance in the atmosphere.

He does not sleep.

\--

Jaskier leaves the moment the sky lightens.

He packs his meager belongings into his bag before hoisting his lute into his shoulder. He closes his room, creaking slowly down the stairs. Once at the bottom, he notices Shayla sitting at the bar top. He thanks her once again for letting him stay and for standing by him last night. Shayla shrugs his thanks off before waving him goodbye.

Jaskier was long outside the tavern when he hears it.

“Take good care of yourself.” A voice whispers beside his ear, sounding suspiciously like Shayla’s. Jaskier turns around, but Shayla isn’t there. The tavern doors are closed, and he can no longer see the inside

He shrugs, and then continues his walk.

When the tavern was nothing but a speck in the distance, Jaskier feels something wet land on his cheek. At first, he thinks it was rain, and he shuffles into the shade of a tree before a fleck of white lands on top of the sleeves of his dark doublet. He looks around, and then he looks up.

_Snow_ , he thinks. The first snow of the land.

\--

It was barely noon when the men from the tavern catches up to him.

See, Jaskier knew he was bound to run into them again. He felt it last night, under the first man’s gaze before he left. He had felt it when first light broke through the sky. He felt it when he heard the rustling of the leaves. He felt it in the river flowing beside him.

He just didn’t think that it would end so violently.

One moment he was whistling while walking the path, the next, he was being kicked into the ground and being surrounded by a group of men in horses. A yell rips out from his throat as he feels another kick against his back. He raises his hand to protect him, a plea for mercy already at his tongue when the voice from last night rings against the clearing.

“Hello, bard.” The voice says with a snarl.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Jaskier asks, voice thick with tears. Two of the brutes were holding his arms, forcing him to kneel and look up to the man. “I already told you that I had nothing to give you.”

The man sneers at him before grabbing him by the hair, arching his neck up and forcing him to gaze into his eyes.

“I want you to tell me where Geralt of Rivia is.” The man tells him calmly.

Tears begin forming in Jaskier’s eyes as the grip slowly tightens until finally, he lets a whimper slip from his mouth. “I already told you what I know. I haven’t seen Geralt in a long time so _please just let me go._ ”

The man scoffs, letting go of Jaskier’s hair. He motions to his goons, and moments later Jaskier feels the breath leave his lungs as a fist connects with his stomach.

“Tell us what you know, bard.” The man orders him again. A fist hits Jaskier’s face, and then his ribs. “We can do this all day.”

Jaskier keeps his mouth shut, only letting out grunts of pain whenever a fist manages to land a hit on his body. His mind drifts off to other things, a feeble attempt to block out the pain he feels. He distantly recalls things—the mountain, the djinn, being kicked in the chest by the elf Toruviel, his mother leaving him in a hollowed out log as she walks to the river to kill herself. He tastes the bitterness of blood in his mouth, and he belatedly realizes that the men have moved on from using their fists and are just kicking him around.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long the ordeal lasts, but what he knows is that the pain never stops blooming across his body. He lets out a deranged chuckle as he imagines what he must look like at the moment: bloody, beaten, and broken. He runs his tongue over his split lip, feeling the sting as his saliva wets the bloody wound.

Jaskier raises his head, lifting his hand to block the muted sunlight from his eyes. Once again, the man grabs him by the hair, forcing him to look up.

“Last chance bard, where the fuck can we find Geralt of Rivia?”

Jaskier smiles, all bloody and exhausted, before spitting directly into the man’s face. The man shouts as he wipes the blood and saliva marking him, letting Jaskier fall into the ground. Jaskier chuckles, twisting and turning in the ground as every breath that leaves his lips hurts him even more.

The man, finally getting over the shock of Jaskier’s spit hitting his face, stalks angrily back to Jaskier. Jaskier barely has the time to react before the man pummels his fist against his face repeatedly, grunts of anger leaving his lips. Slowly, Jaskier goes numb to the sensation of being hit, and he thinks that this might be the moment that he dies.

Jaskier was barely breathing when the punching stops.

“He’s no use, sir. He won’t talk.” A voice tells the man. Jaskier could barely open his eyes to check who had spoken. His crumpled body hurts everywhere.

“You know what to do.” The man says. Jaskier vaguely feels hands grasping his wrist tightly, pulling him. His ears register the sounds of the Yaruga river, the current moving against the winter wind. Jaskier grunts in pain, and he suddenly feels his feet being submerged in the waters of the river. He struggles faintly, but his body was too weak, too broken.

Too soon, Jaskier feels his head sinking, the wounds stinging as the water touches it. The person holding him holds his head underwater. Jaskier struggles, and he tries, and tries, and _tries,_ but he was just too weak to even get a good grasp at the man who was drowning him.

He thinks he could cry, if he could.

He hears muffled laughter from the river’s shore, the group of men cheering their comrade on as he drowns the helpless bard in the cruel waters of the Yaruga.

Water enters his lungs, and the darkness overtakes whatever is left of Jaskier.

\--

The man lets go of the bard when he notices him going still. The current carries the bard’s body down under, his dead body sinking into the riverbed.

“Are dead bodies supposed to sink?” The man asks their leader as he walks towards the shore. The leader shrugs, telling him that it’s time to move on and find shelter for the night before the snow gets heavier, which it usually does when it’s the first fall.

The man turns his head back to the river, and what he sees sends a jolt of fear up his spine.

In the few moments after the bard’s body sinks into the bottom, the river has gone eerily still. The previously raging currents are nowhere to be found, and there is nothing but silence all around.

Swallowing, the man walks faster. He attempts to ignore the heavy weight forming in the pit of his stomach.

See, the Yaruga, like all rivers in the Continent, is home to creatures beyond what men can conceive in their heads. Too late, the man prays that whatever lives in the Yaruga—he hopes they haven’t angered it with what they have done.

\--

When Jaskier was seven years old, his mother had told him that the Yaruga barely, if ever at all, freezes over. When he had asked why, his mother had smiled and said “great rivers never freeze Julian, only if you anger them.”

On his eighth birthday, Jaskier watches as his mother sinks into the Yaruga river. On his forty-third, his body sinks into the river bed, covered in nothing but blood and dirt. His unseeing eyes look into the murky waters of the Yaruga. He does not feel the arms cradling him, nor does he feel the whispers of a voice he has not heard in decades.

And for the first time in years, frost begins to creep on the surface of Yaruga.

\--

In Kaer Morhen, far from where Jaskier met his end, a man with golden eyes and white hair bolts from his bed, startling his two other companions awake: a woman with violet eyes and a young girl, barely a lady but has already seen too much of the world. A name falls from his lips, fear twisting in his stomach as he watches the snow fall heavily outside his window.

“Jaskier.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I know I said I was gonna update every two days but I was suddenly struck by inspiration as I was perusing my emails. Not letting it go to waste, I sat in front of my laptop for 4 hours until I finally came up with this. I hope you enjoy it. Again, this deviates from canon a lot, so any comments about how it's far from canon is gonna sound stupid. English isn't my first language. This work will be gradually edited for continuity and grammar mistakes. Thank you <3 Next update either tomorrow or the next day.

_The first time that the Yaruga froze, most of the continent was nothing but vast, unknown lands on the maps of travellers. It was not even the Yaruga yet. To them, it was just a river. The first people had docked their boats on what was, as the people of today called it, Cintra._

_The men had walked, miles and miles, following the great river that led to the inlands. Legends say that the river was harsh for the first settlers. There would be no fish, and often the river would overflow and flood their homes. Vegetables planted along the banks would be swept away by raging waters, and parents took great care not to let their children stray too close to the waters, lest they fall victim to the cruel waters._

_By the first winter, when the river has begun taking livestock, the first village elders have had enough and had prayed day and night for whoever was responsible to appear. On the fifth night of praying, when the full moon was out, the river went eerily still. The village elders had gathered everyone outside, willing them to become witnesses to whatever was going to happen next. It was silent for a few minutes… and then._

_Snow began to fall from the sky, and gasps rang from among the settlers. Frost began to creep rapidly on the surface of the river, covering every inch of it, until finally it reached the middle where a woman, who had not been there before, is now standing._

_She was, well, she was beautiful, for the lack of a better word. According to legends, she stood over six feet tall, her blue skin glistening against the moonlight. At first glance, one would have thought that it was glistening because she was wet, but when the settlers took a closer look, it was merely because her skin looked like the finest diamonds. Her long white hair moved like currents—like they had a life of their own. She stood, looking at everyone all at once._

_The details of the legend end there, according to most of the books in the continent. The people of Cintra, who descended from those first villagers, claimed that the river introduced herself as Yaruga, God of the Yaruga River, and a deal was struck among the villagers. No one knows what the deal was, but after that, life for everyone was as peaceful as it could be._

_A Brief History of the Rivers of the Continent_

_Authored by Aleith Ryn Zielinski, 1125_

_Kept in the Libraries of Oxenfurt Academy_

\--

Jaskier did not expect to wake up.

When the man clutched his neck and held him underwater, he had made peace with the fact that it was simply his time—that Jaskier the Bard has finally met his end after years and years of avoiding it.

His last thoughts had been hilarious to him. He was thinking that he spent decades with a Witcher, and he had avoided the clutches of death all those times despite Geralt being an absolute magnet for disaster. How ironic, he had thought as he gazed into the bubbles of air leaving his lips, how fitting that he meets his end here, in the river where he was abandoned as a child.

When Jaskier came to, his first thought was _Geralt came to save me._

When he took a look at his surroundings, his second thought was _Geralt did not save me, I am probably dead._

The ceiling was high, and delicate gold carvings interlaced with marble make up the ceiling’s design. He shifts his gaze to the marble columns, looking in awe at the intricate detailing. He shifts his hands against the bed he’s laying in. _Silk,_ he thinks. When he looks down, he marvels at the fact that the silk surrounding him looks like rushing water.

He makes a move to stand up, surprised at how energized he suddenly feels. He walks to the vanity standing in the corner of the room. When he reachers it, he gasps.

He looks at himself in the mirror. He had half expected to be filled with bruises still. The torture he received before he was led to his demise in the river was nothing but painful. He remembers broken ribs and bloody cuts covering his body. He remembers a cut lip, and he remembers it as clear as day—as if it happened just mere moments ago. But the Jaskier that stood in the mirror was the Jaskier that left Shayla’s tavern. He was clean, free of cuts and bruises. None of his bones seemed to be broken. He poked his cheeks, expecting them to sting but they were oddly unblemished. His eyes should be swollen, but they were bright blue as ever.

He turns around, looking at his nape, where he’s sure that a bruise the size of a handprint should be forming by now. Tears form in his eyes when he sees it unmarked.

So, he’s dead then. There’s no going around that. Even a mage as powerful as Yennefer would not have undid the damage as quickly.

He’s startled out of his mourning when he hears a knock from the door.

“Come in.” He says, as he wipes his tears. Wherever he is, and whoever his gracious host is, he wants to look as presentable as he can.

When he sees who enters, Jaskier’s beliefs of his death solidify further in his mind, because the figures he see—the people standing in front of him _died_ when he was eight years old.

“Julian, our darling baby boy.” His mother speaks, his father standing beside her, as young as the day he was killed that one fateful night many years ago. “Welcome home.”

\--

“Are you sure she’s going to be safe here?” Geralt grunts to Vesemir, Ciri clutched close to him in an embrace.

“Geralt, son, Kaer Morhen is the safest place for her.” Vesemir reminds him. Geralt lets Ciri go, and she rushes over to Vesemir’s side. “No one can find her here. Not even Nilfgaard’s strongest mage. Not unless you have shown them the way.”

Geralt nods in assent, before beckoning Yennefer over. Yennefer waves her hand, creating a portal for the two of them.

“Goodbye.” Ciri says sadly, waving at the two of them as Geralt and Yennefer step into the portal leading them away. Geralt barely had the time to wave back before the portal closes, leaving him and Yennefer alone in an empty field, and Ciri miles and miles out of sight.

\--

When Geralt woke up with Jaskier’s name on his lips, this time he knew it was not good.

It was not often that he dreamt of Jaskier. Or, rather, he didn’t use to dream about Jaskier at all. One would expect that travelling with the bard and being in his constant presence would lead to Jaskier frequenting Geralt’s dreams more often, but it never really happened.

Well, until the dragon hunt happened.

He had said things to Jaskier that he knew would hurt. Often, he thinks of how differently he would have approached the matter. He was angry—angry at the djinn, angry at Borch, and angry at Yennefer. Jaskier had only been trying to make him feel better, but instead he lashed out and hurt Jaskier gravely in the process. He knows this, he knows he has irreparably hurt him because Jaskier _left._

He never left before. He had always traded insults with the bard, some insults harsher than most. But not once did he leave Geralt’s side. Not even for a second. Jaskier took everything Geralt gave him, and then Geralt took that for granted.

The dreams of Jaskier came shortly after the events that had transpired on the mountain. It was always the same dream. Always the same scenario, over and over, and over again. The first dream came a month after they parted ways, just after Geralt finished a contract in Gors Velen. He was meditating, not even planning to go to sleep, but he eventually did fall asleep, unable to deny any longer what his body craves.

_He was standing in the middle of the Yaruga, and the river was frozen over. He tried to move, tried to run, but when he looked down his feet were submerged and encased in the icy river. From a distance, he sees smoke rising, and belatedly he thinks—and fears—that he must be looking at a burning Cintra. An invisible hand grips at Geralt’s heart as he thinks of his Child Surprise in harm’s way._

_He tries to move again, but the ice holding his feet hostage prevents him from doing so. He punches through the ice, his fury coursing through his veins. He’s always hated being trapped, and it’s not gonna change now._

_Just as he was about to break through, a hand suddenly appears out of nowhere, clasping his wrist gently. He recognizes the red sleeve covering the arm, the detailing, the stitching—it was Jaskier’s. The last he ever saw him wore._

_He looks up, and sure enough, it was Jaskier. He was the same as ever, but at the same time he looked absolutely different. Geralt couldn’t pinpoint why, and he wasn’t even given the chance to when suddenly, Jaskier speaks._

_“Find the girl. Fulfill what was promised.”_

_And then, darkness._

Months after that, Cintra had fallen. A year later, he has Ciri with him.

The dreams did not stop when he found Ciri. In fact, it only intensified in frequency. It did not stop when he found Yennefer, and it did not stop when they reached Kaer Morhen.

The last dream, however, rattled Geralt to his very core.

_Once again, Geralt was standing over the frozen Yaruga. He sees burning from a distance, and then again, he attempts to free his feet from the clutches of the frozen river._

_Except, this time, no hand came to stop him. He tries to shrug off the worry that suddenly began to pool deep in his stomach. Jaskier should be here by now, his dream self thinks, Jaskier should be there to stop him._

_When he punches through the ice, what he sees makes his blood run cold._

_There, laying peacefully underneath the broken ice, was Jaskier. He looked like he was sleeping, except he also looked very dead. His skin was pale with the lightest hint of blue, the sign of a frozen body. His eyelashes were covered in frost. There was no red to his cheeks, his lips were frozen shut, and his hair had been all but drained of the life they used to have. A whimper leaves Geralt’s lips when he touches Jaskier—he was cold, absolutely cold, and for the first time since the dreams started he screamed until his throat was raw._

When he woke up to see the snow falling outside his window, Jaskier’s name spilling from his lips, Geralt knew he had to find him.

\--

“Are you sure it was the Yaruga?” Yennefer asks him, handing him the rabbit she had been roasting over the fire. He takes the spit from her, grunting a thanks in return. He does not answer her question.

“Why didn’t you portal us closer?” He asks her instead. Yennefer pauses, gazing into the fire.

“I couldn’t come any closer to the river.” She explains. “Watch.”

She stands up, making motions with her hand in an attempt to open a portal. The wind whirls around the space she was motioning to, but nothing happens. She tries again and still, nothing.

“It’s as if there’s magic preventing me from coming any closer.” She explains as she sits down. “Like someone is deliberately keeping me away.”

Geralt hums, handing the spit back to Yennefer. “We’re close enough, at least.” He tells her. Silence descends over them, nothing but the crackling of the fire filling the gaps in the dark night. Yennefer eventually excuses herself, magicking the tent that they brought along. Geralt moves to lay against the log he had been sitting on, gazing into the night sky.

“You know,” Yennefer says, breaking the silence. “You can always tell me what the dream was about.” She sits beside him. She begins to run her fingers through Geralt’s hair, offering him comfort. “The bard and I had our disagreements, but I am not curel, and I do not wish ill to him nor do I want to see him hurt.”

Geralt sighs, settling into the feel of Yennefer’s hands. “I am afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of voicing it out. It may come true—much quicker, than I would like.” He says, struggling over how to describe what he feels. Talking has never been Geralt’s strongest suit, and underneath the stars, with only Yennefer for company, he feels incredibly and frustratingly vulnerable.

“Sometimes.” Yennefer begins to tell him. “Sometimes I wish that you could forget him.”

Geralt merely hums in response. He reaches over to grasp Yennefer’s other hand in his, his big, calloused hand easily dwarfing her delicate ones. He manages a smile that doesn’t even reach his eyes. She smiles back, and he moves her other hand from his hair to his cheek.

“Yen, you know I love you.” He tells her. “You know this. We broke the djinn’s bond and I still love you.”

“Yes, but sometimes I wish I don’t have to share you.” She smiles, no contempt in her eyes—but there was sadness there, Geralt knows. “All the power in the world at my disposal and still I have to share you with a human.” She tells him, not cruelly but simply as though she was stating facts.

“I can’t help what I feel, Yen.” He tells her. “Something is tying me to him. To us. I have long denied Destiny, and I fear that it is trying to get back at me now.”

Yennefer doesn’t respond. Instead, she stands, pulling Geralt up with her. She plants a soft kiss against his lips, clutching his hair tight between her fingers. He returns the kiss eagerly, sighing once they finally let go. Yennefer drops her hands from Geralt’s hair. She pulls him towards the tent, and together they fall asleep.

\--

The last time Jaskier saw his father, he was bleeding from a wound caused by the mercenary’s sword protruding from his back. He was clutched in his mother’s arms. He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

Now, as he looks into his father’s eyes, still as young as the day he died, he thinks he might be going insane.

He walks backwards, back to the bed. He sits down as his knees hit the mattress. He buries his face in his hands.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” He asks his parents. “I died, and now you’re here.”

His mother chuckles. He feels her hands pulling his own away from his face. She directs his gaze into her eyes, and he finds himself staring into deep blue pools very similar to his own. “You are not dead, my wonderful boy. You’ve just… woken up, for the lack of a better word.”

“H—wh—I—What do you mean?” He asks his mother. He thinks of the last time he saw her, sinking into the bottom of the Yaruga. He remembered reaching out to her, but he was too weak, too tired, too small. He thinks, _I miss her, I miss her so much._

“How am I alive? How are you alive?” He asks again. His father pulls up two chairs in front of him. Together, his parents sit. They each grab one of Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier grips them tight, afraid that when he lets go, they’ll be gone again.

“Jaskier, my boy, what do you know of the rivers of the continent?” His father asks him gently.

“Nothing much.” He tells them. He relays what he learned while he was studying at Oxenfurt. History was always dull to jaskier; it has never been his favorite subject. More than that, there never was enough textbooks to support the history of the continent. Everything he knew, he learned from gossip, and each town had its own version of how the settlements came to be. “We never really learned, in Oxenfurt. Everyone had their own stories.”

“When the first humans came to the continent, the River Gods were surprised to find out that men existed. That humans existed. The Gods did not know what to do with the sudden influx of men all over the land. They did not know how to deal with it.”

“Gods?” He asked, his eyes widening like saucers. His father chuckles, nodding. “Yes, son. Gods. There exists more in the world than what you know.”

“Some merely accepted, like the Pontar.” His mother continues. “When men reached the mountains, the Gwenllech drowned them for the longest time until it fell in love with one. The Ribbon instructed its tributaries to accept the humans but with care and trepidation—it instructed the Vda most of all, to keep the Brokilon close to those who are greedy and unkind.”

Jaskier watches as his mother beckons him closer. He does, leaning forward as if he was about to hear the greatest secret hidden from mankind. He does not know if he is ready.

“The Yaruga has always been one of the mischievous ones.” His father suddenly says with a smile, as if he knows the Yaruga personally. “The Yaruga was one of the rivers who made life quite hellish to the first settlers by its bank. If the first men lived today, a lot of the stories would be about how the Yaruga was a, well, it was a mean river that’s for sure.”

“The Yaruga had thought it was a joke, but the humans knew nothing of the Gods, and what they didn’t know, they were afraid of. When the Yaruga began to take livestock, the early humans living by the bank feared that it would move to taking the people soon. So they prayed, day and night, for five days, for whoever it is controlling the river to appear.

“And then finally, she did appear. The Great Yaruga. The humans struck a deal with her---”

“So she would stop meddling with their lives.” Jaskier says, cutting his mother off. “We learned that, back in Oxenfurt. There was a deal, but nobody knew what it was. Nobody kept record of it.”

“Indeed, what a smart boy you are, my son.” His mother smiles at him. Jaskier feels blood rush to his cheeks, heating his face up.

“A deal was struck, yes. It was an, well, an oral deal of sorts. A verbal one. Nothing of it was written, in the fear that the existence of River Gods would be solidified. The Gods wanted to be as vague as possible in the minds of men. The power they hold is beyond what can be imagined. It would be hell if men ever knew they existed beyond the legends.

“The deal, of course, was something simple. The Gods did not ask for much. They had simply asked for a favor. Once, every hundred years, a man, or a woman, from the village would be, without explanation, born with the gift of knowledge of the Yaruga. This knowledge will remain dormant until they are of age. From then on, the man would serve as the Yaruga’s acolyte until his death. When they die, they would be turned into a lesser River God, serving as a representation of the Yaruga.

“The other Rivers caught wind of this deal, and struck their own with their respective villagers. Again, no deal was ever written down, so by the time the first villagers died, the events that occurred when the first men came were chalked up to nothing but myth—creations of the minds of men who wanted explanations for things they could not find the answer to.”

His mother finishes the story, but despite the knowledge of finally knowing a huge portion of the history of the Continent, Jaskier was still left in confusion.

“But that doesn’t explain why you claim that I am not dead. Why am I here then, with you, if I am not?”

His father moves to speak. “When I was born, back in 1191, my mother—your grandmother—said that the first thing she ever said when she saw me was that I was going to be special. When I was eighteen, playing with the other boys by the banks of the Yaruga, a current swept me too hard, and I was dragged underwater. I thought I was going to drown, of course. I fully expected fear to cloud my mind.

“But instead of fear, all I felt was _safety, warmth,_ and _comfort._ I did not fear death, oddly enough. I felt as though I was safe within the waters. Safer than I had been when I was in the surface. I had closed my eyes, basking in the river’s comfort. The next thing I knew, I was being pulled up by my friends—they were all crying. I had been gone for quite a few minutes, and they had feared that they would be bringing a dead body back home to my parents. Truthfully, I should have died. That long without oxygen, underneath raging river waters, should have killed me… but it didn’t.”

His father looks at him expectedly, and Jaskier’s eyes widen in realization. “You were an acolyte.” He whispers in awe, a giddy smile blooming across his face.

“And that was when I met your father.” His mother adds in. “I had ignored his advances, initially, of course. But then, I grew to fall in love with him. Eventually, we married, had you, and then built a home in the forest, a little far from the river. We raised you, and for years we were happy. Until, your eighth birthday happened.”

“How is this all connected? Wh—di—Is my birth the reason for all this? Was father never meant to fall in love with a human?” He asks his mother. His mother merely chuckles, her shoulders shaking with mirth.

“When those men came that night and killed your father, he didn’t die. He was merely transported into the river, finally becoming the Lesser River God he was always meant to be. When I walked through the Yaruga, sinking into its depths, it accepted me. Like it always had, and like it always will.”

_Like it always had, and like it always will._

_Always. Will._

Jaskier’s eyes widen, the reality of his situation dawning on him. He looks at the figures in front of him, his father and his mother, long dead, long gone, but here in front of him. Whole, breathing, and _alive._ He looks at his hands, hands that are supposed to be bruised and bloody.

Then, he remembers the night his mother left him. Remembers how her dress looked like—like the current of the Yaruga.

“That’s right, Julian. My name is Yaruga. The river bears my name, and I was here before man, before your father, and before you. I am the daughter of one of the Great Gods of the Continent, and all the rivers that run through this land are my brothers and sisters. I fell in love with an acolyte named Simon, and we married, we had you, and then we built a home in the forest, a little far from _my_ river.

I left my little boy in my forest, because it was not his time to join me and his father. For Destiny knew that my boy was meant for great things, things bigger than he could ever imagine. I could not bear to rip my son away from my arms, but I also could not defy what Destiny has set for him. It was a burden I carried from the moment I gave birth to him.”

Jaskier swallows, his head finally ringing in clarity. “My mother is the Yaruga. You’re—you’re a God. My parents are Gods.” He says breathlessly. The ordeal of knowing was weighing on his mind.

“More than that Julian,” his father tells him softly. “ _You_ have our blood inside of you. _You_ are a _God._ Have you not noticed yet why you don’t seem to age?”

His mind recalls the conversation he had with Shayla, the tavern’s owner. Shayla had asked why he looked so young, and at the time he had attributed it to the life he had been living. Now, he finally knows why. He’s the son of a God. His father is the river’s acolyte. He has a God’s blood running through his _veins_.

“Every decision you have ever made has led you to this moment, Julian.” His mother tells him, clutching his hand tighter. “Every pain, every anger, every hurt, every single joy. Destiny has led you to this. And now, all that’s left is to tell you of what role you have to play in her fabric.”

“Role? What role?” Jaskier asks, his eyes darting from his mother to his father. “You mean there is more to this?” He asks them.

His mother moves to pat his cheek, a sad smile forming against her lips.

“Haven’t you heard, Julian?” She tells him. “War is coming for the Continent. It is your destiny to help stop it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you liking the twists so far? How's the Yennefer introduction? And how's the whole Jaskier is an all powerful river god concept going for you so far? Let me know in the comments.. Or yell at me.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me.


End file.
